Date: Wed, 11 Oct 2017 15:15:47 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Patriot UP 2

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/patriot-up/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult and young-adult men. Much of the sex is coercive. Go away if
any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my
characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of
future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
to keep the cum coming.

*****

He smiled broadly. "Well, you might find it nice to know that the new Seven
Manager O'Stallion has requisitioned a cook and man-of-all-work now that he
has responsibility for managing the camp itself. We don't currently have
such a person in Patriot Seven, and Patriot Seven Leader is... open to the
idea of a non-Patriot fill-in. Do you think, well, that you might one day
want to be a Patriot yourself?"

I looked into his broad, suddenly-open face. "If Rawles, Cooper, God and
Providence suggest it... yes, sir."

"Welcome to the real world, Larry Coos. We may well make a Patriot of you
yet."

*****

Patriot UP 2 - Beaver Moon

By Bear Pup

*****

I settled in as Seven Manager Robert O'Stallion's aide and his de facto
property, hauling and cooking and assembling materials and, generally,
learning how the battalion worked. The power structure, the dominance
structure, and the pack structure were well-aligned, but not perfectly
so. There were men who had far more power than their rank or position would
suggest. Chief among those were the PersIntel staff led by Bobby's
dad. That made a horrible kind of sense since that team acted as an
internal police force as well as the interrogators and intel hub for
offensive and defensive actions. The one thing that epitomized PersIntel
was a complete lack of mercy or any other outward sign of humanity.

Managers like my own benefactor were another such group. The influence here
was far subtler. They couldn't *make* people do anything, but most of the
men went out of their way to be helpful, nice and useful to them. I found
out why when Bobby's immediate superior, Seven Manager Sergeant Devroe, saw
a big, ripped, swaggering Guard named Malloy arrogantly shoulder Bobby out
of the way like you would expect of a bully. I caught the kid, but he still
dropped a stack of tarps he'd been carrying and my own went sprawling as
well. Devroe pursed his lips and shook his head sadly.

The next day, Seven Guard Malloy came by to pick up the two-day rations for
his team (the camp ran on odd/even supply schedules). He smirked at me and
Bobby as he swaggered up to Seven Manager Javier who started to pull the
supplies that morning. "Belay that, Patriot." Javier looked up to find
Devroe standing with his arms crossed. "Wrong set on the food, son. You
want GP-601 for Guard Team Kilo."

I glanced over to the stacks, knowing damned well I hadn't assembled a Grub
Pack with a number like that and saw Devroe's personal chop on it. It
contained spinach, broccoli, creamed corn, salt-pork, canned tuna and a
variety of other barely-edible items along with, conspicuously, not a
single can of beer.

Two days later, the same thing was repeated, this time with a
slightly-older Patriot doing the pickup, scowling at the marginally-edible
contents (and lack of beer). He asked and Devroe assured him that it was
precisely the correct items for Guard Team Kilo. On the sixth morning,
Malloy's crew chief, Seven Guard Sgt Friars, came instead. He got a pack
that, if anything, was actually worse... and still no beer. The meat
components were shudderingly-hideous: Teriyaki Spam and something called
"Dried Krab Flakes". He had a terse conversation with Devroe, shouldered
the pack and stormed off in a flat rage.

The next morning, a battered Malloy limped over and knelt in front of Bobby
and stared at the boy's boots. "Seven Manager O'Stallion. I sincerely
apologize for being a prick and an asshole and I swear to Providence it
will never again happen." He ground his teeth together as he blushed redder
than anyone I'd seen. He flipped around on hands and knees and pulled his
pants and shorts down to the bottom of his (very nice) ass. He turned back
to look at Bobby and said like he was reading from a script, "Will you take
me, Patriot, and f-f-f-f-f-f-fuck some sense into me?"

Bobby stared long and hard at the man, then his ass. It was a mighty fine
ass, plump, muscled and hairy as all hell. Now, I love having my Patriot to
myself, but I was certainly looking forward to watching him fuck this bully
into submission. "Pull your pants up. I have no idea what you're referring
to, Guard," Bobby growled.

The man's voice went from pro forma to panic as he looked back over his
shoulder. "Oh, God! Please, sir. By Providence, please fuck me! Please? I
c-c-c-c-c-c-can't go back until I can tell my Sergeant and the rest of
Guard Team Kilo that you see me as a Patriot. I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry,
Patriot O'Stallion. Sir?" He shot a pleading, desperate glance at my
benefactor from under a slowly-growing shiner and literally wiggled his ass
to entice my Patriot.

Bobby stood, unzipped and pissed straight into that hairy ass. He kept his
voice flat, emotionless and (noticeably) hollow. "I am damned sure not
going to fuck you. I have no reason," he added strong emphasis to the next
three words, "*at this time* to think of you as anything other than a
Patriot." He shook his dick and tucked it away as I stared in flat
shock. "Now pull up your fucking piss-pants and get out of my
sight. Dismissed."

For the next two weeks, Devroe continued to personally assemble Guard Team
Kilo's food pack. Beer reappeared immediately and Malloy was suddenly
popping up constantly to do chores and favors. At least once a day, he
would drop trou for my priceless little Bobby, offer his ass and beg to be
fucked, often in humiliating situations where others were sure to hear and
see. He never did get Bobby's cock but got pissed on about once in
three. Team Kilo had beef back within a week and even some premium items
there at the end.

That kind of dog-pack dominance game was common. Offenses were usually
dealt with instantly, with a submission-gesture from the lower-ranking
offender and a quick, efficient and humiliating punishment. If not, the
pack suffered and would Code Red the guy causing problems. The phrase,
"Will you take me, Patriot, and fuck some sense into me?" was not at all
uncommon for serious inter-team screw-ups. Most of the guys actually did
fuck the offender like a bitch in front of as many people as possible,
usually adding derisive trash-talk and always, *always* pissing on the man
afterwards, even if they didn't cum. Piss was, well, important to the
Patriots. The ultimate marking of the Big Dog.

Life for me was pretty simple. I did whatever Bobby told me or could
conceivably desire, then whatever anyone else might appear to need. I was a
big guy and used to being a human mule as well as an Environment
Reconstruction Engineer, and I was both quick and smart. Bobby was, quite
simply, smitten with me but took great pains never to show it. When I
fucked up, I got punished like anyone else. When Bobby administered a
punishment, he was, if anything, far more forceful and brutal than others,
overcompensating for the desire to go easy on me. I had been publicly
fucked and pissed on a number of times, with Bobby berating me over my
mistake throughout. It was all I could do to pretend I hated it and hope
his piss would cover the wetness when I (as usual) came in my pants.

There were other pairs and small groups that were obvious if you looked
closely enough. The most compelling, to me, were two groups that were polar
opposites. One was centered on a young blond SigIntel guy who was also a
FOX (Fixed Ordinance Exploser, aka a Boom-Boom). He was not in the least
effeminate, but was clearly an enthusiastic bottom. He kept four hulking
brutes on a sexual (or at least emotional) leash who treated him like he
was a movie starlet and they were protective suitors.

At the other end was Seven PersIntel Garcia, a wiry man with a goatee and
an evil grin. He had a number of guys who would very quietly seek out his
after-hours attentions. He also had two regulars, both lanky muscle-studs,
one a guard and the other a medic, who could often be heard getting his
very special (and painful) kind of loving. I almost puked when Bobby
whispered that his dad had confided that one of those two liked to have his
cock painted with SenzAll. Garcia would then use a spiked roller to prick
it thousands of times over the course of an hour or so, also treating his
nipples and balls to various brutalities. Apparently, the excruciating pain
eventually turned to such and intense pleasure that the man came so
explosively Garcia made him lick his cum off the walls of the tent.

I never let it show in front of others, and used the whole 'submissive
fear' thing liberally around all the Patriots, but Bobby was my Sol, the
thing around which my world orbited. I could feel my ass try to wag a tail
I didn't have if he so much as grinned at me, and I'd have to swallow a
whimper if he winked. Whenever we were utterly and safely alone without
risk of observation, I would literally beg him to take me or let me
pleasure him in any way I could. I found his two greatest sexual secrets
that way.

The first was that he had a set of asslips that screamed for rimming. I
once got him to cum with ass work alone. He couldn't abide any sort of
penetration -- either through indoctrination or nature, the discomfort of
anything more than a finger would kill his erection -- but tongue, lips,
and even teeth could send him into a frenzy that often resulted in me
leaking Patriot cum for a day or two. It was not uncommon for him to fuck
three loads into me if I got him worked up enough, pausing only long enough
to overcome the hypersensitivity of his post-orgasm state before continuing
to plow me like a fallow field.

The other came as a complete shock to both of us. I was undressing him one
evening while we were on bivouac, camped fifty yards from the rest of the
team. I took off his socks and he giggled, something I'd noticed before but
never gave much thought to. I leaned in and started to lick and nibble at
the arch of his foot and Bobby... well, Bobby went fucking bat-shit
crazy. I repeated the experiment with the other foot and got the same
result. Sucking his big toe got the same moans as sucking his cock, but the
arch was his kryptonite. He literally fucked me for four hours straight
that night, growling like an enraged bear most of the time and shuddering
with each cum. It was two days before I could walk right.

I gave that a lot of thought, the way Bobby's cock up my ass, down my
throat or anywhere else made me quiver with need. I wanted so badly to
blame the SenzAll for the fact that I craved Bobby's smell, the reek of his
crotch after a long day and the tender scent of his pits after a warm fall
night. I found that I *needed* the feel of his hands, the taste of his piss
and cum, the sound of his voice behind my ear as he took me or mumbled into
a kiss as I pleasured him. I had always been straight as an arrow, and I
thought I still was... except for Bobby.

The problem with the SenzAll theory was that the vile little fucktard now
known as Seven Sniper Madison still repulsed me and the thought of Seven
Scout Night Wind anywhere behind me sent shivers crawling up my spine. I
finally reconciled the facts with a simple truth: I was straight for the
world and queer for my chunky little Robert O'Stallion.

After the first hard freeze in early October, the Goons withdrew to their
fortresses well within the Yellowstone Territories and the Patriots (us)
pulled back to Patriot Base Alpha. We needed to be there by what the men
called the Beaver Moon, the full moon between the first freeze and the
first lethal blast of winter expected in mid-November. We got there a week
after the first big snowfall. I remember precisely because I thought that,
had I been back in New England (the Old US), we'd be celebrating the
National Day to Recall Genocide, the holiday previously called Columbus
Day. Patriot Base Alpha was... a revelation.

Physically, the base was spread up two steep valleys absolutely
chock-a-block with huge trees on either side of a seemingly-barren ridge of
raw stone. The understory and the first thirty feet of branches had been
meticulously cleared and the ground "paved" with gavel in some areas and
mulch in others. Main walkways were made of wood, about ten feet wide and
raised about six inches from the forest floor. They transitioned frequently
into stairs to climb the slopes. All of the buildings were CeramiSteel
(mostly hutments, cones or Quonsets) covered in fractal blur fabric
brilliantly-designed to fade into the forest around. From the air -- hell,
from a hundred yards away! -- it would look like typical scrub beneath the
evergreen canopy.

Every movie, docudrama and 4KReport portrayed the Patriots as the ultimate
Patriarchy. Boy, did they fuck that up! Maybe in the field, but in the main
settlement? It was instantly clear that the "leaders" ruled with the
consent (and condescension) of the Matrons. Patriots that tried to strut
into camp were unceremoniously laughed into submission by the women of
Patriot Camp Alpha.

It was surreal at first. The women were all in old-movie gingham dresses
with waist-cinches, and most were wearing what I could only call bonnets,
white cotton things that barely shaded their faces and controlled their
hair. Universally, each had an automatic handgun on one hip and either an
infant or a Bowie knife on the other. There were easily four times as many
kids of every age as there were adults; the propaganda, that the residents
of the American Redoubt were massively out-breeding those of us... those of
*them* in the Old US, was obviously true.

A half-dozen older women sat at tables under a screen of blur-cloth where
the trail entered the fortified camp, cataloguing everything the men
brought back right down to rounds of ammo. Men returning with captured
weapons got an approving nod; those who had to stutteringly explain where a
missing piece of equipment had ended up got grandma-worthy tongue-lashings
that left the men bright-red and tail-tucked. There was no possible doubt
that the phrase 'naughty little boys' was foremost in the ladies' minds (as
well as most of their menfolk).

I was catalogued as 'Walking Loot' and a half-fearful but completely-fierce
look from both Bobby and his dad (Seven PersIntel Leader O'Connell) made it
clear that it would be a Very Bad Plan to object or even comment. Bobby
took me by the elbow and quick-marched me up the left-hand valley to an
area that seemed dominated by warehouses. The two valleys were of
somewhat-uneven size, the larger (the one we were in at that point) devoted
to women, children and warehouses for non-military supplies. We headed up
the walk-stair-way in Matron Town and turned off as a sign that read,
"Personnel Quartermaster".

When we stopped, a fearsome, middle-aged battle-axe of a woman looked me up
and down, sniffed and disappeared without a single word. I looked at Robert
who hadn't opened his mouth at all and he just shook his head, eyes wide
and looking like nothing other than a scared boy approaching a very stern
grandmother to ask if he was supposed to have cut a hickory switch or a
willow switch for his thrashing. The perma-frown woman reappeared with a
huge stack of clothes matching Bobby's garb.

"Seven Manager 'O'Stallion'," the woman's voice poured amusement,
condescension and power into each air-quote, "I hereby transfer to your
responsibility two sets management PASU, three sets management ODT, one XK
and four sets undies... oh, and one piece of Walking Loot to wear them."
She looked down to make some entries on a physical notepad -- like, you
know, actual paper? -- and utterly ignored us. Robert pulled me away. I
could barely see over the top of the stack I carried.

He guided me back to the crotch where the valleys met and into an area
completely peopled by men in various forms of Patriot garb. We got to a
hutment with a cloth door and Bobby chivvied me inside and said to drop the
load of clothes. He sagged a little. "Holy fuck. I hate that woman! She's
scared me shitless since I was seven." He sagged a little and I hefted him
bodily, something that always made him smile. Partly, of course, because
one hand was already inside his fly and fishing around.

"Which bunk is yours -- or ours if you want a quick piece of Walking Loot
Ass -- Seven Manager O'Sexpot?" I noticed the other resident of the hutment
one moment too late and I quickly set Bobby down knelt in front of him,
cringing appropriately. "Oh, fuck. I'm so sorry, Patriot, sir. Please
forgive me Seven Manager O'Stallion! I don't know what came over me."

Bobby laughed. "Shut it, Coosey," his pet name for me sent a wave of relief
through my body and soul, "and meet Seven Manger Captain Schoen. The guy
who keeps me sane."

"Hey, hey, hey." The voice was low and smoky, rough as moonshine and deep
as midnight. The man himself was not particularly large or imposing, but
his voice more than made up for it. "I refuse to take any blame or credit
for your mental state, young'un. And what have we here?" His voice held
interest and, perhaps, a little bit of a leer.

Bobby's voice blushed even if I couldn't see his face. "Red, this is Larry
Coos, right now he's well, he's classified as Walking Loot but he'll be a
Patriot!"

Red got up and moved toward us and I saw him for the first time in the
light. His hair was the red-orange of an emergency-flare and his eyes were
wide-set and would have been kindly if not for the steely glint. He looked
me up and down carefully as I knelt there. "Let me guess. He was the Blood
Moon Witness? A Zombie, probably. And you kept him. What, as a pet, Bobby?
You always did have a weakness for strays, but you're a Patriot now and not
a little kid."

Now, that seriously pissed me off. I had rarely if ever mouthed off to a
Patriot, but my blood was boiling. "Yes, sir. I was a Zombie. Yes, sir, I
was the Witness to Seven Manager O'Stallion's--"

"O'Stallion? Heh. That's got to be some story. Sorry, Mr. Meat, you were
saying in that offensive and suicidal tone?"

"Yeah, you can off me if you want, Captain, but don't you dare insult this
man."

"Coosey -- Shut it!"

"No, B-- Seven Manager, I won't. No one and I mean no one is going to
demean the best man I've met on either side of this nightmare. I may not be
a Patriot yet, but I will damned well stand up for good people and -- kill
me though they may -- stick my fucking boot up the ass of anyone--"

"ENOUGH!" The Voice of Doom finally shut me up. I was seething, but
something in that tone clamped my jaw shut as if by a magician's
spell. "Well, Bobby, he's as loyal and brave as he is stupid and suicidal,
I'll give you that. You have great taste in walking meat, kid."

He turned to me. "I'll give you a pass, Dead Man Walking, just once. And
only because you were defending someone who I agree is one of the best I've
known. If you ever, EVER take that tone with me again, I will frag your ass
so fast that you'll wonder where all the blood is coming from as you
die. Get me, Mr. Meat?" The last two words were growled and I nodded,
vision still tinged in the red of insensate rage, but also still locked by
the voice of command he'd used.

His voice went suddenly to friendly. "Let's start this over, shall
we. Stand up, Mr. Meat. Now, I watched this big ole bear who'd just hoisted
you up and asked which bunk was yours, I think, and offered a little Zombie
Nookie." He twirled his finger in the air like a movie director. "Roll
'em!"

My voice shook a little and I stared into space above the small man's
shoulder to recall precisely what I'd said. "Um, uh... Oh, fuck. I'm so
sorry, Patriot, sir. Please forgive me Seven Manager O'Stallion! I don't
know what came over me. ...um, line? Anyone got the script?"

Red and Bobby both laughed. "Okay, he's not stupid, but I'll stick with the
suicidal." He stuck out his hand and I shook it. His hand was small, warm,
dry and incredibly strong. "I'm Red, Captain Schoen outside this
hutment. Coosey won't work for your nickname," he looked me up and down,
"and while 'Mr. Meat' is appropriate in several ways, it has
some... negative connotations around here when used to refer to a potential
human. Have to think on that." He turned and finally hugged Bobby tight and
hard, a true bro-hug, but with real affection. I heard my big boy's ribs
crack. The little guy was strong as hell.

"So, tell me, I gotta hear the O'Stallion thing." He ruffled the younger
man's hair.

"Actually," Bobby said, looking at me, "How about you hear it from the
horse's mouth?" I wasn't sure if he was punishing me or rewarding me.

"Um, before I do, can I get you Patriots something to drink? Beers? Some
other potable?"

Those glinting eyes came back to mine. "Yeah. The cooler over there. Get us
both a beer and bring the glasses you find inside." I saw Bobby's eyes get
huge with delighted surprise.

I went over and found the deep-green, vintage Coleman, the kind that had
the metal clamps to hold the lid shut. I opened it was and shocked to find
packed snow inside, the first I'd seen in the camp. Either Red had serious
pull or he'd kept it cold since the snowfall. I made no comment but pulled
two beers and the rather-small glasses. I popped the tops on the beers and
removed the tab of one the way Bobby liked and took them over. "May I give
you your beer, sir, Patriot Captain?" He nodded at the table and I set it
there, first sliding a piece of paper under it, then set the two glasses
next to. "Patriot O'Stallion, may I give you your beer, sir?" Bobby snorted
and grabbed the can.

"So, Bobby, do you let Mr. Meat here drink potables or is he a Recycler?"
That was the term used for Slaves, Walking Loot and other non-Patriots on
whom fresh water wasn't wasted and who drank piss instead, usually from a
solar still but often fresh if a Patriot was randy or in a bad mood.

"Both, Red." Bobby blushed in a way that always made me want to kiss him,
something I had never done and would never do in sight of another
Patriot. "I usually give him some of my beer ration and he's allotted
water, but he's... more than accommodating if I feel... well... you
know. If I want some relief."

The Captain looked me up and down again with more interest. "Hmm. Get
yourself a beer, Mr. Meat, and tell me the tale that has turned young
Robert O'Connell here into Patriot O'Stallion."

"Captain!" There was real shock in my voice; I'd learned well over the last
few months. "I'm sorry, sir, but I couldn't take a beer from a
Patriot. That's your *ration*, sir!"

He cocked an eyebrow. "First off, it was not a suggestion, it was a direct
instruction from a Patriot and a Captain to a piece of Walking
Loot. Second, I don't HAVE rations, I ALLOT rations for everyone else. If
*I* say you are allotted a beer, you take the beer. Third... well, we'll
save that for later. Now, get a fucking beer and start talking!"

Bobby had been truthful. Outside of a few swallows from his allotment when
no one was looking, I hadn't had a beer since the raft trip that landed me
in Patriot Hell, er, Heaven. An ice-cold brew? I honestly could not recall
my last taste of such a drink. At least a week before that, so probably
early July. I pulled one and took a moment to repack the snow to best cool
the beer while avoiding as much melt as possible. I checked the cooler's
bung as well to ensure it was clear; meltwater dramatically sped the loss
of ice.

I turned and saw Red's eyebrows up and arched. "Did you just repack the
beer and check the drain? Before even popping the top on the first really
cold beer you've had in Providence-knows how long? After I told you
specifically to get a beer and start on Storytime?"

I blushed and gulped. Was there anything I *wasn't* going to screw up
today? "Yes, sir, Patriot Captain. I am terribly sorry, sir. I did not
intentionally disobey you, sir. I was instructed to get a beer for myself
but, sir, well, it would be wrong to let the Captain's beer get warm
through my negligence. Uh, sir?"

He transferred his gaze to Bobby who was sitting on his bunk, smiling
widely, so I relaxed. Maybe I hadn't completely fucked myself. I popped the
beer and took a long swig, then sat Indian-style beside Bobby's knee. It
was my accustomed place. Red never looked at me as he said, "Now talk,
Mr. Meat."

"Yes, sir, Patriot. I was, uh, a tourist in the Occupied YT--"

"Where from?"

"Uh, originally Salina, Kansas, sir, but I lived and worked in the
Northeast of the Old US, mainly Vermont, for a decade before being rescued
from bondage under the heel of the usurpation." Oh, yeah, I'd learned well
how to refer to everything outside the American Redoubt.

"Proceed."

"Um, the VTOL we were in had no leave to enter the American Redoubt
airspace and was brought down by Patriot Battalion Seven, specifically by
Seven Heavy Gunner Titchell and his Team Echo. When I came around, Patriot
Seven Leader offered me the honor of serving as Witness at Blood Moon--"

"Honor? Don't bullshit me, son."

My voice grated but I made it as civil and subservient as possible even as
my jaw ground from side to side in fury. "Honor, yessir, Patriot Captain,
sir. No, sir, I didn't think it was at the time, sir, but I sure do
now. Sir." Throughout, Red was watching Bobby more than me. He said
nothing, so I continued. "Robert O'Connell was third up--"

Bobby wasn't looking at me either. It seemed the two were locked in a gaze
that spoke more than I did. He said, "No, tell him all of it."

"Uh, sir? Yes, sir. Um, after I was prepped, Seven PersIntel Leader
O'Connell p-p-p-paid me a visit and, um..." I looked to Bobby who, without
breaking Red's gaze, nodded deeply and gravely. "...told me to pretend the
agonies of Hell because he, um, his son... uh..."

"Because he didn't think I was man enough to do the job." Bobby voice
exuded shame and he finally looked down.

My estimation of the enigmatic and intimidating Captain jumped a dozen
notches when he mumbled, "Damned asshole." Bobby's head shot up. "What? I
know he's an exceptional Patriot and the best PersIntel I've seen, and he's
your father but he's also an ignorant, blind fool of an ass to boot! That
he had the gall to ruin Blood Moon for his own son? He's getting liverwurst
and limburger in his grub-pack tomorrow." Bobby chuckled on cue, but was
still very upset.

I spoke quickly. "But that's just it, sir. Bo-- Patriot O'Stallion was
third up and the one to break me hard, sir! He plowed me so damned well
that I pumped out a load, sir, then he dropped his own in my ass before
fucking another one down my throat! The men, well, they shouted down
Patriot Seven Leader when he was naming this man, but he'd already said,
'Seven Manager O'-- something'. So when the Patriots chanted 'stal-YUN,
stal-YUN, stal-YUN!'" Bobby's face was bright red, but his eyes were on me
and shining like beacons, "well, sir, he just had to go with it. Thus,
Seven Manager Robert O'Stallion."

Red chuckled, then laughed, then guffawed. I took another few, very deep
swallows of the lusciously-cold beer. God, it was heaven. Red wore down to
chuckles and reached to the shelf above his bunk and pressed his ring
against the face of a small, ammo-sized locker. He pulled out... well, he
pulled out a slice -- or perhaps a slash -- of heaven. I didn't need to see
the label, just the shape and color. He held a bottle of one of the "Seven
Seas of Rhye" -- Rittenhouse Rye from Old Heaven Hills. There may be a
better rye whiskey, but with one possible exception I've never tasted
it. He poured two glasses and handed one to Bobby.

He even said it right, "schl-ANTCH-eh," instead of putting all that
emphasis on the s/z sound at the start like most people. Sláinte is the
ONLY appropriate toast over a glass of real whiskey or even whisky. I am
not too proud to admit that I actually drooled. Bobby shook his whole
fucking body, taking a quick hit of beer which I knew would simply spread
the burn. And oh, God, that burn!

My attention was pulled by a low, rumbling chuckle. Red said, "Methinks
that Mr. Meat here knows what he's missing?"

I nodded my head since I hadn't been invited to speak. "Tell me what you
think this is, Mr. Meat." Red dangled the bottle, label away from me.

"Oh, um, Pat-t-t-t-t-triot Captain. You're, well, you're holding one of the
greatest Ryes ever made, Rittenhouse, no lower than second on the list? If
it had been Old Overholt I might actually worship you!"

He burst out in another belly-laugh, actually rolling to the side. Bobby
stared wide-eyed from him to me. "Mr. Meat, you are a marvel. Bobby, well,
Bobby did damned good choosing you. How did that happen, by the way?"

I looked to Bobby who nodded, a bit more serious than I'd like. "Um, well,
P-P-Patriot O'Stallion--"

"Oh, blow that! Call him Bobby. I know you normally do. I'm not an idiot."

"Yessir. Um, it's only that I've never said that in front of another
Patriot, sir. So, um B-B-B-B-Bobby came back four times that night."

"Bullshit! I came back THREE times."

"I humbly beg to disagree with a Patriot, sir, but you came back
*four*. First with people who were whooping it up for you, second with
people who were, well, skeptical that you'd really done that to me, and
then your father."

"Right! Three!"

"Yes, sir. Do you want me to, well, not mention...?"

"Oh." His voice was a little chagrinned and more than a little proud. He
nodded.

"As the night waned, Patr--- Bobby came back when the rest were done with
me. He, well, he made love to me, sir. He brought me off again just with
his cock and his voice, never even touched my dick, Patriot, I'll swear
it. It was... the most incredible thing that ever happened to me. I'd
never, um, er, I'd never had sex with a man before the Blood Moon and never
wanted to. Other than this man, I still don't. But, well, Bobby made
me... crave it. No, not 'it', just HIM."

I looked up and Red looked at my eyes, his glinting like knives, then back
to Bobby.

"Sir, I don't know how else to say it. I can submit to a Patriot, but no
one can do what Patriot O'St-- Bobby does. I don't want men. I
want... him?"

The silence went on for a long time. Bobby was locked in the man's gaze
like a bunny with a snake, but with only a bit of fear and a lot of pride.

He never looked at me. "Mr. Meat," he rumbled, "you said a lot in
there. You are quite right that Bobby is something special. I just never
knew he had it in him to captivate a man like you. Now, hush, Bobby. I'm
not talking about the shit your daddy swims in. I mean... you spotted
something special in this apparently-useless fucking slab of meat--" like I
was gonna object at that point? "--and you grabbed it. You took what you, a
real man, earned. What you wanted and needed and fuck the world. You made
it yours. That's what the Patriot cause IS, son, it's what it is SUPPOSED
to be."

He turned to me. "After your attempted suicide-by-mouth, I mentioned three
things but only explained two. The third fits with what I just said. The
fact that you had the balls to object when I told you to get a beer, and
could also articulate why you were objecting... well, you get it. You
proved you understand what the Patriot cause is. Patriots earn what they
get but they damn well get what they earn."

I went to raise my beer to my lips and the small man barked, "STOP!" Well
of course I froze instantly, not even letting my eyeballs swivel. "Mr. Meat
is, well, not right anymore." I heard the flow of liquid, like a slow
runnel in a level wood. "I think the best nickname, Bobby, would
be... well, since you're O'Stallion, I think he'd make a good Bronco,
wouldn't you?"

I looked to Bobby with wide eyes. His were bugged out a little, but also
knowingly as he nodded slowly, smiling so wide I thought his face might
break. "So, Mr. Meat, look at me now." I did and saw he held a glass
out. It was different than the two I fetched, both of which I saw sat full
on the table. "From this day forward, subject only to my being overruled by
Patriots of higher rank, you are Provisional Human Bronco. Do you accept
this name?" He held out the small glass that was brimming with rye whiskey.

I looked to Bobby whose eyes looked like he would cry with pleasure or,
possibly, pride as he nodded at me. I shot the rye and my eyes crossed, but
I managed to husk out, "Yes, sir! Thank you, Patriot Manager Captain
Schoen, Red, sir. Thank you, sir! May I get you another beer, sir?" He
laughed as I scurried to retrieve another for him and for Bobby.

"Get a second for yourself, Bronco. I have a feeling this is going to be a
long night. And you're wearing too many clothes. Let's see what has Bobby--
I mean, Patriot O'Stallion -- so... smug, shall we?"

<eof>

THANK YOU to the amazing folks like Jack, Lee and Thom who volunteered to
beta-read this story and made it far better than it started.

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 36 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 27 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 29 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Culberhouse Rules: 13 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/
Raven's Claw: 11 chapters .../authoritarian/ravens-claw/
Ashes & Dust: 7 chapters .../rural/ashes-and-dust/
Maybe Next Time: 6 chapters .../authoritarian/maybe-next-time/
Irma's Boys: 1 chapter .../adult-friends/irmas-boys/
Patriot UP!: 2 chapters .../authoritarian/patriot-up/